


Never a Dream to Compare

by FrancescaMonterone



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square, Awkward Romance, Coda, End of the World, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 11:03:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19130722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancescaMonterone/pseuds/FrancescaMonterone
Summary: Crowley didn’t quite know what to do with all that sudden freedom except to lean forward into an embrace that was several millennia overdue.





	Never a Dream to Compare

Sometime between the Romans and miraculously turning Hamlet from a depressing tale of domestic violence and madness into one of history’s great theatrical works, Crowley must have accidentally fallen in love with an angel.  Or maybe it had happened even earlier, standing on the Garden wall and taking shelter from the very first thunderstorm underneath a white wing…

In any case, by the time the French Revolution rolled around, he was well and truly smitten with this odd, contradictory creature, even if it took him another couple of centuries or so to admit it to himself.

The problem, Crowley mused as he sat on that bench in the dark, with an angel beside him, waiting for a bus that would never go to Oxford; the problem lay with his motives.

If he had felt an inexplicable desire to seduce an angel and tempt him to the sins of the flesh; then well, that would probably have been within the job description. A bit self-indulgent, perhaps, but certainly admirable in its evil intent. Demons, being busy spreading chaos and despair generally didn’t set time aside for sex, but they recognized that its uses went quite a bit beyond the old ‘be fruitful and multiply’.

Unfortunately, though, Crowley was not interested in corrupting Aziraphale. Instead, he felt an inexplicable desire to spend eternity sitting at a table of some posh restaurant, or in front of some quaint little café, or even on a stupid picknick blanket, just sit and watch Aziraphale eat cake and listen to him prattle on about things of very little importance.

Crowley wanted Aziraphale in the passenger seat of his Bentley, complaining about his driving, and his music. He wanted to spend long evening in the bookshop after it had closed its doors to the public, drinking old wine and talking. Instead of mortal souls, he coveted an eternity of silly bickering and moral arguments, of tantrums and the inevitable reconciliation that followed them.

He wanted to see the light in Aziraphale’s eyes, and the smile on his face, and know that he was responsible for both.

In short, Crowley wanted to love and be loved, without any interference from upstairs or downstairs, thank you very much.

He sat next to Aziraphale on the bus ride home, and if his arm slipped off the back of the chair and around the angel’s shoulders, well, accidents happened. Surely Heaven and Hell were too busy right now to begrudge him such a little thing?

“You can stay at my place… if you like,” he had said to the angel, and meant s _tay with me forever._ And miraculously, Aziraphale had followed him. Had trusted him.

Crowley felt his invisible wings expand and stretch.

It was deep blue midnight by the time a startled bus driver opened his doors in front of Crowley’s apartment building, and their corporeal shells demanded sleep. Crowley caught Aziraphale yawning hugely and laughed.

… And if he tiptoed into the guest bedroom much later that night, almost into the morning hours, to draw the blanket over the angel’s shoulders and watch him sleep, so shoot him.

 

* * *

 

 

The Day after the End of the World, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square; and Aziraphale, who as an angel had preternaturally good hearing, heard it.

He smiled.

(Crowley heard it, too, and promptly accused him of putting the bird there on purpose, which was obviously preposterous – when _would_ he have had the time, apocalypse, antichrist and all?)

Crowley watched him smile for a moment or two, gently shook his head, and reached for his hand.

Frowning, Aziraphale looked at their intertwined fingers.

“What?” the demon asked defensively. “There’s arguably magic in the air, you are smiling at me, and there’s a nightingale singing in Berkeley Square, poor confused bird that it is. Angels – well, one angel at least – _were_ dining at the Ritz, and while the streets aren’t _quite_ paved with stars – well, we could change that.” He snapped his fingers and the pavement beneath their feet began to glow softly.

Aziraphale laughed, a sound like heavenly bells that mingled with the birdsong, the background roar of traffic, and Crowley softly singing:

_How strange it was_   
_How sweet and strange_   
_There was never a dream to compare_   
_To those hazy crazy nights we met_   
_And a nightingale sang in Berkeley square_

_Ah this heart of mine_   
_Loud and fast_   
_Like a merry-go-round in a fair_   
_We would dance cheek to cheek_   
_And a nightingale sang in Berkeley square_

“… I will draw the line at dancing, though,” Aziraphale said, after a moment’s contemplation. “I am not nearly as light on my feet as Fred Astaire, especially not after such a sumptuous meal.”

“I thought angels didn’t dance at all,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale blushed, a little.

“Well…”

“You rebel, you. What was it, waltz? Line dancing? Française?”

“… Gavotte.”

“I could make _so_ many jokes about that right now.”

“But you won’t,” Aziraphale said.

“I won’t.”

The nightingale fluttered away into the unnaturally beautiful sunset; its mission accomplished. Hand in hand, an angel and a demon walked through the busy city that had no idea how close it had come to the end of it all.

Somewhere, angels and demons alike were sulking.

They reached the front steps of the bookshop, and Crowley stopped in his tracks. There it was, just like before. The sight of it made something inside his chest clench and unclench in a brief, painful spasm.

So, nightingales aside, everything really _was_ back to the way it had been before.

Before his mind’s eye, Crowley saw the flames greedily eating away at the precious old books, saw himself tear into the shop, screaming his lungs out, because he had lost something far more precious than those books…

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked softly.

Crowley shook his head, unwilling to answer. He realized with a pang of regret that this was goodbye. Whatever else had happened in the past few days, reality was reassembling itself and getting back into gear. Aziraphale would go back to his books, and Crowley to his plants and his car, and they would go back to being dear, unlikely, bickering friends.

Crowley would bottle up all the useless feelings whirling around inside him and shelf them once more.

“Well, come on in.” Aziraphale held the door open for him. “Now that we’ve prevented the apocalypse, you should have time for a nightcap.”

It was impossible to deny him anything.

They sat in their usual places, and Aziraphale pointed out the books Adam had added to his collection, chuckling softly. “He has… peculiar taste in literature.”

“Well, he’s an eleven-year old boy, what do you expect?” Crowley idly swirled his drink around in his glass.

“I wonder what will happen to him, now.”

“Me, too,” Aziraphale said with a sigh. “I only hope he will get over it and grow up to be… well, normal, I suppose. He’s such a sweet boy.”

Too sweet, if you asked Crowley, but nobody had. “Some people downstairs are carrying a mighty grudge,” he offered.

Aziraphale looked up sharply. “Are they? Oh dear. Somebody should probably watch out for him…” He let the sentence trail off.

“Tadfield is quite a ways from London,” Crowley pointed out. “We could ask the witch, though. She’s pretty sharp. Well – you had better ask her, I don’t think she likes me all that much.”

“You ran her over with your car,” the angel pointed out.

“It was an accident!”

“It seems unfair, putting all the burden on Anathema,” Aziraphale mused. “She has done her part, and admirably so. No, I think I should go myself.”

“You would leave London?” Crowley asked, taken aback, while at the same time, every fiber of his being – both corporeal and incorporeal – screamed _no, don’t, you cannot leave (me)!_

“Well…”

“And your books?”

“Tadfield could use a good bookshop, don’t you think?”

Oh, Aziraphale. Crowley wanted to grip him by his lapels and shake him.

“Possibly, if only to improve Adam’s taste in literature.”

The angel grinned. “There are some nice cottages there. A cottage, a shop on the High Street, maybe with a little café adjoining… I could get used to that. And anyway, it wouldn’t be forever, would it?”

“No.” _But you would be gone_. And if you asked Crowley, a day without Aziraphale was a day too long.

“Well, then.” Aziraphale settled back into his chair, getting comfortable. “When are we leaving? If your people are out for revenge, we shouldn’t leave it too long, don’t you think?”

“… excuse me, _we?_ ” Crowley spluttered, stumbling over his words. “And they aren’t really my people anymore, I told you, we don’t have sides anymore… but anyway, _we_ , Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Yes…? Yes, of course, you didn’t think I’d go to Tadfield on my own, did you? Adam’s a sweet child, and I like Anathema and her young man, but I would be dreadfully bored without you – Crowley? What are you…? Oh…”

Crowley had risen from his chair, spilling his wine in the process, and stalked over to Aziraphale, pulling him up until they stood face to face (well, Aziraphale was still shorter).

“You are the most infuriating, insane, ineffable being I ever met!” Crowley grit out between clenched teeth, shaking him a little. “You can’t just say something like that and…”

A hand was raised and came to rest on the side of his face ever so gently. Crowley stilled completely.

“Crowley. Will you come with me?”

Such an earnest question, such eyes.

“I – yes, of course.” And then, softer “… anywhere.”

Aziraphale gave a brief, satisfied nod, his fingers caressing Crowley’s face.

“But what am I supposed to do in Tadfield?” Crowley asked, somewhat helplessly, because it really didn’t matter anymore at this point.

His angel shrugged. “Watch over Adam. Plant a garden. Whatever you like, really. Nobody’s watching anymore.”

Crowley didn’t quite know what to do with all that sudden freedom except to lean forward into an embrace that was several millennia overdue.

 

* * *

 

 

“That went rather well,” God said to Lucifer, handing him a drink. The rim of the glass was decorated with tropical fruits and a tiny umbrella. Lucifer scowled at it.

“Too much?” God asked innocently. “I think it rather fits in with the surroundings.” A sweeping gesture encompassed white beach, turquoise ocean, palm trees, colorful canvas chairs and even a couple of parrots.

Lucifer took a sip and spat out a piece of fruit.

“It did go according to plan,” he acknowledged. “But why send them to Tadfield? The boy doesn’t need supervising, he’s a perfectly ordinary child now. My lot are in far too much trouble with _me_ to even contemplate revenge, and yours… well. Let’s just say, the paperwork is going to take Gabriel and Michael a couple of centuries at least.”

“True,” God admitted. “But they deserved a break.”

“Crowley and Aziraphale?” Lucifer shook his head. “Come on. They enjoyed themselves! Those two have always enjoyed being in the middle of things. Trouble doesn’t have to go looking for them, they find it.”

“Even so.” God stretched in her chair and dug her toes into the sand. “I am quite pleased, Lucifer.”

Lucifer inclined his head and tipped an imaginary hat.

“Don’t you think your final appearance was a bit over the top, though?”

He shrugged. “They were expecting a horrible monster. Who am I to disappoint?”

“That poor child, though.”

“Bah. He was fine. Brave little bug, that one. Pity I couldn’t keep him.”

“There’ll be others,” God consoled him. “There always are. And you were always my favorite, don’t forget that. Nobody else could have taken over Hell; it had to be you. I was sorry to see you fall, of course, but it was necessary.” She took a thoughtful sip of her drink. “Could you imagine Gabriel as Ruler of Hell? Or Michael?”

Lucifer gave an exaggerated shudder.

“Exactly.”

“And now?” he asked.

“There are several hundred other versions of the end of the world to go through,” she reminded him. “We won’t be bored.”

**Author's Note:**

> [A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Nightingale_Sang_in_Berkeley_Square) the song quoted an played at the end of the series, was written by Eric Maschwitz(lyrics) and Manning Sherwin (music)


End file.
